Dave the Dad 15 - Take me to Your Leader
I gave an interview a few weeks back on an internet radio station babieshuhwhataretheygoodfor.com who wanted to chat about the trials and fibrillations of being a modern dad: taking part in the birth (in much the same way that I ‘took part’ in the last James Bond film I saw), coping with poo, the work/home balance and that age-old dilemma of what to do when you come back from the Park after chatting to a gaggle of nubile young mums and realise that you’ve had half a Farley Rusk stuck to your beard all morning.Of course I said all the right things. ‘Parenthood changes your life’, ‘it’s the most important job you can do’, ‘babies have to learn how to fit around what you want’. Absolutely.
And yet… here in Brighton Jane and I have now come full circle. The truth is that babies are little dictators whom you have invited into your home so that they can take over all the important decisions in your life. Same as vampires. They can’t get in without your say so but once they’re in, they’re staying. Meanwhile you, the oppressed, bled dry parent positively encourage their whims. It’s no coincidence that Tom’s first sign (and this after months of signing, ‘Don’t wipe your nose on the sofa’ whilst inexpertly flailing my hands about) was the sign for ‘No!’ The only other sign he apparently knows is ‘Hot’. He pretends to do this sign -whereby he approaches an object only to pull his hand away sharply - but invariably does it as an excuse to reach out and try to wrestle my stripey mug from me. He thinks that by looking serious and saying ‘HO.. HO..’ I’m convinced of his good intentions.
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This is standard now; his tiny hands causing havoc whilst all of the time looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, which quite frankly it rarely has time to do before careering towards his tummy on a crumpet half the size of his head. So now Little Caesar has ousted us from our bedroom and thrown us into his boxroom, which is 82% box, 7% room and 11% penguins frozen to the skirting board. This lack of insulation is ostensibly the main reason for moving but really, REALLY, we know the truth. Our room is better and Tom wants it.
It’s the same with food. After his morning milk Tom’s full for a good hour. But show him your croissant as you sit down for a snatched breakfast and his ‘bready treat’ radar perks up. His nose visibly twitches and inclining his face he raises his eyes as though to say ‘Eh up, what’s all this then?’ He’ll then proceed to wolf down a good third of your meal before realising that he wasn’t that hungry anyway. For his size he can nick your food pretty sharpish; like one of those tiny voles who end up eating fifteen times their bodyweight every day just to stay on an even keel. Mum’s melon boat at lunchtime is always so much nicer and better and tastier and melonier than the one in Tom’s greasy paws. Frankly he’s largely correct as the one he is about to drop to the floor is probably covered in drool.
It’s the same with static, non bready things. On the weekend we rewarded William, our Burmese, for not taking one of Tom’s ears off despite extreme and repeated provocation over the last fourteen months. We bought him a new scratching tree so that he can trim his nails, sit and view the horizon from a mini-platform and mix kicking beats for other mogs in da hood.
Tom’s reaction was predictable. He grabbed one of the bouncy balls attached to the platform and tried to wrest it from the cat’s razor sharp claws. Didn’t go down well. William, never one to miss a chance, ‘assumed’ that Tom was playing and started thrashing his paws for all the world as though he was auditioning for the job of lead guitar in Nine Inch Nails. Tom leapt backwards, cried to the Heavens for all the injustices in this cruel world and then swiftly pushed the cat from his platform and attempted to climb onto it himself. Will was a tad shaken but he knows, a la Frank Bruno vs Tyson, that he had gotten a couple of good swipes in during what has to be seen as a glorious defeat.
The way I see it things are only going to deteriorate now that he’s up and walking. In actual fact he still doesn’t like getting around on his own but loves it if he has one or, better still, both parents clamped to his side. He may only be holding one finger but the grip couldn’t be greater if there was a bloody great dyke on the other side. Not an impossibility in Brighton. Anyway, he staggers about, refusing to be corralled, his legs pulsing to a Michael Jackson beat as he barrels down the street, everything fascinating, everything amazing and everything, crucially, edible.
It was during one of these rambles that we got to thinking about all the myriad changes that have overtaken young feller-me-lad in the last year. Hint: never get into a conversation with your wife concerning who has taught your child the most. I felt I was way ahead but when push came to shove it turns out that after careful forward planning, continual positive reinforcement, critical use of praise and extensive body language I have taught Tom how to lick the lid of his Strawberry Yoghurt pot. Hey! It’s a skill.
17 November 2006.
Dave Fouracre
Dave Fouracre aka "Dave the Dad" is a regular feature writer here at thebabywebsite.com. Read more about his hilarious experiences as a Dad. |
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